


It’s Only a Body

by skadi_zlata



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a sensible, calm and reliable man. He keeps telling it to himself, but sometimes that doesn’t help much. Especially when Sherlock sets up a psychological experiment requiring a riding crop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Only a Body

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta selana1505 for help and for her kind words about this rather unkind story :-)

John has a creepy feeling that something is going on. And that he is already an important part of the process.

Sherlock contemplates him from the sofa, and John doesn’t like this dreamy, slightly interested gaze. At the moment, Sherlock looks like a schoolboy observing a curious beetle, trying to identify it and hesitating what to do next – to put the specimen into a tin and examine it later or to pin it for case display right now. A beetle would feel creepy too if it only knew the prospects. And John probably does. Sherlock has something on his mind, and if he doesn’t tell everything at once, in a sudden burst of words, John isn’t going to approve it.

Sherlock is still in his dark grey suit, slightly wrinkled – an oddly pleasing sign that no one is perfect, even the most brilliant ones. Obviously, he has been out all day. At Bart’s, most likely, for there are no cases to solve. John won’t ask. No niceties on his part like “oh, tell me how you were doing”. Sherlock never asks about his tedious duties at the hospital, why should he behave differently, then?

And he’s not inclined to talk anyway. He needs peaceful silence for a while, after an influx of patients, and he’ll have it.

But silence is not peaceful at all. As he opens his laptop and starts surfing the Web, he is constantly aware of the mute surveillance. Sherlock’s gaze feels like a touch, an intrusion to personal space. Why doesn’t he bloody go to his own room if he has nothing to do here?!

John takes a deep breath and calms himself with a heroic effort, trying to pretend that Sherlock’s presence doesn’t agitate him at all. This permanent irritation is exhausting. As a doctor, he knows what happens to his body right now. Anger triggers the release of stress hormone cortisol, along with adrenaline, creating a splash of energy but also increasing blood pressure, causing headaches, compromising lung function, suppressing the immune response and – _that’s why I’m an idiot, Sherlock!_ – impairing the brain’s thinking ability… A bit not good.

They say you have to take a break from the person you’re angry with until your frustrations subside a bit. But it’s hard when this person is sitting in front of you with no intension to leave – and it would look like a retreat to pick up your laptop and to flee upstairs, defeated and humiliated, or to rush outside without any pretext. He has no reason to go out, and Sherlock knows that. No dates, no friends to meet. John persuades himself that it’s a temporary situation. When Sherlock is on a case, he takes all of John’s free time. When he is not, John is too exhausted for simple, ordinary entertainments like hanging out in a pub with the hospital crew. It is fine for a while, because he is never bored, but not for the rest of his life. Sherlock may be “married to his work”, but John isn’t married to _Sherlock’s_ work, that’s for sure. John has never been a recluse, he needs company on dull evenings like this – apart from Sherlock and the skull, both equally sullen.

Not tonight, however. It has been a trying week, and perhaps he shouldn’t foist himself on colleagues in his present mood because he will be nervous, and sulky, and altogether unpleasant, though they don’t deserve to witness his tantrums.

Sherlock does. But it is unlikely that a flatmate’s nuisance will ever disturb this man in the slightest.

In the morning they had a quarrel concerning the bills – well, actually, John had a quarrel with Sherlock. The latter didn’t quite participate, dismissing the matter as unimportant and niggling, because he was heading somewhere – so why stop for a minute and just listen? The situation was not absolutely catastrophic, John could cope with it on his own. But Sherlock’s reaction made him uncontrollably infuriated, left him breathless and speechless for a moment, choking with rage.

John is a calm, sensible man. He keeps telling it to himself, but sometimes that doesn’t help. John is not touchy, not at all, and he tries to avoid conflicts, but his patience has its limits, and it’s annoying that Sherlock doesn’t bother to see them.

Surely he is not thinking of the quarrel now – why should he? The brief conversation wasn’t spinning round and round in his mind all day long like a maddening, never stopping record. A surge of exasperation rises anew, and John barely manages to suppress it.

A distraction – that’s what he needs. Something nice to cheer him up.

For Sherlock, it would be a murder, no doubt. In his present state of mind, John can see the point in it.

After starting a blog, he spends much time online in various communities for writers, spouting up all over the internet. Mystery writers, mostly. He likes to read forum discussions about factual accuracy of criminal stories, fully packed with murders and injuries. Strangulations. Stab and gunshot wounds. Concussions. Tortures. It’s oddly fascinating to see all these business-like dialogues. “I am planning to shoot my male character in the shoulder at close range. But he must stay conscious and still functional for a few hours. Will it be convincing?” – “You better don’t do it. The shoulder is a very complex bit of biological machinery. There are huge blood vessels as well as lots of very delicate nerves. A smashed joint or a crashed bone is not what you would wish for your character too. My vote is for the upper arm, where a through-and-through may avoid the bone, or it could be on the far sides of the abdomen or the outer thigh. Painful but survivable, and a pressure dressing can keep him going for several hours.” – “Thanks for the info! An in-and-out wound to the upper arm will be ok. I was kind of hoping for a dramatic bullet removal, but I think I can forgo it.”

John could add some information about shoulder injuries. More precise and specific. At least, someone will appreciate his help and say “thanks”, with an addition of a smiling emoticon, or maybe even – “Thank you so much, you are amazing. I wouldn’t cope without you!” Sherlock is a consulting detective, and he can be a consulting… well… a consulting how-to-kill-or-injure-your-character-in-the-most-expedient-way specialist.

Sherlock would certainly regard John’s new occupation as a waste of time. But it isn’t the worst method to fight stress, compared with his sister’s habit to look at the imperfections of the world through a glass of whiskey.

After a hard day John finds a sort of consolation in the troubles of someone fictional. From time to time.

But now he gets more and more nervous. It’s rather uncomfortable when someone is watching you like that. If you are so clever, Sherlock, why don’t you see the signs of the inevitable explosion? Breathing begins to increase, all the muscles tighten, pupils dilate… It’s body language, so evident, so palpable.

Maybe Sherlock just got used to this expression on his face – the jaw clenched tight, the brows drawn together... Not a very charming countenance.

John tries to relax. He is a doctor, yes, he knows how a body works, what chemicals are released into his bloodstream, how they affect him, and it should be helpful in the attempts to control his reactions. But not always. Moreover, sometimes he catches a disturbing, unpleasant thought that he starts reasoning just like Sherlock who surely considers emotions as effects of physiological processes, related to certain activities in our brain, and nothing more. It’s somehow distressing to be so much like him.

Stop. Don’t think about it. Breath deeply.

“John?”

A pause. John doesn’t look up, pretending to be absorbed in working on an important subject – and in truth reading a meaningless passage again and again, some writer’s speculations about the fate of his beloved character: “I want him injured, but not dead. I'd shoot him in the upper arm, but I shot somebody in the upper arm in the previous scene. Can I shoot him in the leg instead?” Yes, you can, John is tempted to answer. Put a proper question – get the best recommendation. I hope this helps.

“Jo-ohn?”

“What?” John snaps finally.

“I need to set up an experiment. Your assistance needed.”

John is hesitant and rather wary. Sherlock’s experiments are mostly strange – sometimes they end up with a heavy stinky cloud of smoke drifting through the rooms, and it’s not even the worst thing that can happen. But maybe Sherlock will leave him alone at last.

“Is it an experiment on _me_?”

“No.”

“Do I have to go somewhere?”

“No, you don’t. And no, it won’t take much of your precious time. Furthermore, no explosives, no poisons, no drugs involved. And it’s _not_ like the incident on Tuesday. More questions?”

There must be a trick. Nothing is so easy.

“Well?” Sherlock is monitoring the changes on his face with an expression of exaggerated patience. Does he practice this unblinking stare in the mirror?

“All right.”

“You promise to do what I ask you to?”

“Yes, ok, I promise, just go on with this, won’t you? What is it?”

Sherlock keeps a dramatic pause again, then sets out the task: “At first, I want you to count all the times when I was harsh with you, or humiliated you, or undermined your self-esteem somehow. From your point of view, certainly. Let’s say… In a week. Yes, a week must be optimal. So – how many times, exactly?”

He is waiting, hands pressed together, eyes still fixed on John’s face.

Apologies? Not likely. But who knows? John gives up, a little bit intrigued, and starts to compile his private list of offences. The most insulting, condescending remarks. The most awkward situations Sherlock managed to organize for him. The most clear manifestations of his usual inappropriate habits, like borrowing things without permission or leaving while John was talking to him, just because he had something more interesting in mind. And that “incident on Tuesday”, of course (John shudders internally). It is beyond any classification.

The list is expectedly long.

“Twenty… twentysomething…” John mumbles uncertainly.

Sherlock nods.

“Fine, let it be twenty… Now, I need to know how you feel about it.”

No apologies for Tuesday, then. No mention of the morning quarrel either.

“You mean – I should speak out? All that therapy stuff, like tell me your problems, describe me your emotions, and it will be a great relief?”

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock winces as if John says something stupid again. “It won’t work. You are not good at consecutive descriptions, especially taking your blog into account. No, we need something… visceral.”

John looks at him blankly.

“A graphic, perceptible, physiological expression of your feelings,” Sherlock clarifies. “So that I can measure their intensity. You are still angry, aren’t you?” It’s more a statement than a question. “Good!”

John looks even more blankly if it is possible.

Sherlock suddenly jumps up from the sofa and disappears without a word, leaving John to deduce what the hell is going on. Muffled noises come from Sherlock’s room as if he is searching it in a dash. Something heavy lands on the floor – probably not Sherlock himself, just a heap of books or a box from the top of the wardrobe. Seems like he is making a mess of his properties.

Sherlock returns in a minute – without the jacket already, barefoot, disheveled. Triumphantly holding a riding crop in his hand.

“Needed it for an experiment in the mortuary. You remember it probably.”

John doesn’t. But no questions, though Sherlock is always eager to provide him with gory details. An apprehension regarding the present assignment of the crop is disturbing enough in itself.

“What you are up to?”

Sherlock grimaces as if the matter needs no explanation. “Beat me. Twenty strokes.”

John blinks at him.

“Are you serious? No, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. Absolutely. And why are you so scandalized? I’m the object of your anger. If you feel like hurting someone, why not me?”

“I don’t…” But Sherlock gives a meaningful look to the laptop. He knows. And though this forum addiction it is not a secret – ok, a secret, because Sherlock obviously would mock him, but not a shameful one – John feels that he starts to blush.

“Do you think that I’m some kind of pervert?” he demands sharply.

“No… Should I?”

“Then why ask me to do something like that?”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and suggests: “Because you promised?”

Irritation increases, emerging like tiny sparkles from the ashes. Does he really think that John will do anything – jump from the roof, run naked in the streets – just because he promised?

But before John protests – he is always too slow to protest, Sherlock holds out the crop, and John takes it automatically from his hand. Damn.

While John is still hesitant how he should put this macabre performance to an end, Sherlock sheds his shirt, throws it to the armchair, impatiently and gracefully, without even looking in that direction, and leans to the wall, spreading both arms and bracing against it, exposing the full reach of his bare back.

“John, what are you waiting for? I said it wouldn’t take much time. But it will if you are so sluggish.”

Fine. Fine, then.

Not believing that he is accepting this foolish game, John comes closer, measuring the weight of the crop in his palm. Why do you always obey all of his whims, have you got no self-respect, John Watson? It seems – none at all.

“You don’t have to be delicate,” Sherlock adds helpfully, and it’s the last drop for John. Fury rushes through him like electricity. Delicate? Damn he will be delicate!

The crop lands with a loud crack.

A sharp intake of breath. Sherlock’s muscles tighten in resistance to the sudden pain – and then the next stroke follows, and the next one.

No moans, no shrieks are forced by the merciless, mechanical blows, and it makes John even more enraged. Oh, you think you are tough?

A small part of his brain keeps counting methodically ( _four, five, six…_ ), but most of it must have ceased to function in a whirl of madness, with only one desire left – to break this arrogant manipulative bastard the only way he can, by plain force. To make a mess of him.

Sherlock is pressing his lips tight by now or biting them hard.

Come on, it must be very, very, very painful. Cry out. Don’t be shy. Whimper. Plead. Tell me to stop. Beg me to stop. Why don’t you? Why – the bloody – hell – don’t you?

But aside from a smothered swear at number eleven and a short aborted groan at number fifteen, there are no sounds from Sherlock. It’s only the swish and snap of the crop against flesh, the crack of leather on skin.

And then – silence.

After the last stroke Sherlock stands frozen for a moment, still bracing against the wall, forehead pressed to it, fingers dug hard into his palms – and it’s a moment of horror for John because he suddenly realizes, with a shiver down his spine, what he has done. A sensible man. A friend, as Sherlock calls him.

Twenty strokes, applied with enthusiasm, did damage. He can see the reddish welts burning across Sherlock’s back, so visible on the vulnerable white skin, and two stripes of blood where the crop has cut too deep into the flesh. Strokes number eleven and number fifteen.

John doesn’t know what to say. Now that the intoxication of fury has oozed all out of him, the hangover settles in fast. It all started almost like a joke, didn’t it?

Sherlock unsticks himself from the wall, folds his arms, carefully avoiding to look at John. There is a strange expression on his face. Thoughtful, but more than that. Stunned perhaps?

“Was it really that bad for you – what I said, what I did?” The low voice is calm and steady, only a little bit strained. “I must… think it over.”

And he turns to go, leaving John wrapped in self-disgust, with the crop in his convulsively clenched hand and with a horrible uneasy feeling that nothing will be the same now. How can they pretend that it’s alright? Something is broken, forever, and it’s the worst thing that could happen. It wasn’t that bad. Oh, God, it wasn’t. What if Sherlock “thinks it over” and decides that the increasing tension between them is too distracting, that John is not as sensible and reliable as his companion should be, that one of them must leave as soon as possible? He is always so rational in his decisions… All these prospects stream through John’s mind not as consequential thoughts but as cold panic.

“Wait!” he catches Sherlock at the door, stands in his way. “Wait, we can’t leave it like that.” He means the welts in first place, it is something he can deal with. “Come here, lay down on the sofa.”

He speaks in a doctor’s voice, and Sherlock obeys, as if in a trance, and stretches himself on the sofa, face down on a cushion, while John rushes out for a medical kit.

The reddish bruises, running from ribs to shoulder, adorn Sherlock’s back like a vivid pattern. John cleans the two long, slightly bleeding cuts and a few shorter ones – the sharp stings from the very end of the crop – and applies antibiotic ointment, trying to be as gentle as possible. Sherlock’s whole body stiffens as John’s hands touch his skin.

Only a few minutes ago John felt nothing but a predatory urge to hurt him as severe as he could, in a total eclipse of other thoughts and emotions, but at this instant it is almost a stab in the heart to see him in pain.

Now, a cold compress to reduce the swelling would be fine. John is pretty sure that there is something quite unpleasant lying in the ice tray – no ice, then, but perhaps a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a towel, will do?

As he stands up to fetch it, Sherlock rolls to the side: “John. Stop. Sit here by me. We need to talk.” And it’s John’s turn to obey. He slides to the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table, so slack and exhausted, his stomach a wreck. They need to talk, right.

“Sherlock… I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I asked.” Sherlock breaks him off in his usual abrupt manner. “And don’t you worry so much. It’s only a body”.

“But it is _your_ body!”

If Sherlock has no empathy for others, he has a great amount of self-neglect too, that must be admitted. He lets out a puff of disdain at John’s remark: “It will heal fast, I’ve seen worse. It’s literally nothing. At least, in comparison to a chemical burn… or a needle under your nail…” He frowns, apparently picturing something even more unpleasant, and John suddenly wonders how long this list of injuries can be and if some of them were applied deliberately, in the course of various self-destructive experiments. Then Sherlock adds wryly, in a lighter tone: “But yes, I’m glad I have chosen only a week as a period of inquiry. A month would be too much for me, obviously. A suicide, one would say, and not an easy way to die. Anderson would probably collapse out of sheer joy examining my corpse.” John can’t suppress a nervous snort, and Sherlock smiles back briefly, a smirk trembling in the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe I deserve just one more stroke, though, for lying,” he continues after another short pause. “I said it wasn’t an experiment on you, but partly it was, and you shouldn’t blame yourself, it’s my fault. I made you feel ugly and cruel, which you are not. You are a good man, and that is your main problem sometimes. You are a fighter. Always have been, clearly. You need an outburst of energy. You need to be on the edge, to feel that you are alive, to act, to break through, but at the same time you are a man of certain moral principles, you never do any unjustified harm to others just for the sake of fighting. A military doctor career was perfect for you. In a dangerous situation you can be ruthless, effective and quick. To cut and to stitch up – that is what you are good at. But in ordinary, pedestrian life you are suddenly humble and hesitant, you do what you are told to even if you don’t like it. Why?”

Because I’m an idiot, John sighs, but doesn’t say it out loud, and Sherlock keeps talking: “Is it a military habit to obey? I suppose it’s not. When you act like a military, you are quite capable of making your own decisions. Nerves of steel. Self-confidence. No signs of confusion. Something deeper, then. Probably, childhood taming, as always – abuse at school, at home, no wonder your sister got used to drinking – violent behavior in order to defend yourself – grown-ups constantly telling you that a good boy shouldn’t rebel, attract too much attention to himself, that people usually, normally avoid conflicts, solve their problems patiently and decently. And you try to, and it contradicts your nature so much that you are angry with yourself and with the others, but you struggle to stay calm, until it’s unbearable – and then an explosion follows – and guilt – and anger again. That’s why you look for dangerous situations – they are not 'normal' and 'usual', so you can act the way you like. Be what you are. Protect yourself and those whom you can help. You are not angry because you are bad. It’s because you try to be someone else.”

They both stay silent for a while. John has a feeling that he must say something, but there is nothing he can think out right now. With the exception of a weird conclusion – maybe they are even more alike than he has ever thought. Sherlock is a fierce fighter too, with the rebellions and scars of his own. Living in a constant high energy state, always ready to hit where it hurts to make the world notice him and to be hurt in response. Using facts and words instead of a gun and a scalpel, but with equal cold-blooded efficiency. Perhaps that’s why they fit together, despite all the quarrels. The only difference is that Sherlock never tries to be agreeable.

Or does he? In his own way? He likes to be admired and appreciated, after all, and to prove that he’s worth it. But with no case to solve brilliantly, showing off in John’s presence, with no battlefield to drag John to, he is completely at a loss what to do to make himself the center of John's attention...

At the moment John is too overwhelmed by unexpected relief to make further deductions. He hopes that the most confusing part of the evening is over, everything’s back to normal.

Wrong.

Staring almost absently at his own delicate, long fingers tapping against the leather sofa cushion, Sherlock asks in a matter-of-fact tone: “You are not angry now, are you? You feel no hatred, no rage. So – it _did_ help. Perhaps we should repeat these… sessions. At the end of each week maybe?” He leaves no pauses after the questions, giving John no chance to interrupt him. “You will need such an outburst again, obviously, since I’m not the easiest person to live with. And it’s fine. I’ll take it. Moreover. I ask you to do that. It’s up to you how much it will hurt. No safe words. No limits. You may choose the crop or anything else. Whatever. You. Want.” The words fall, heavy and sharp, like carefully measured strokes. He meets John’s gaze and adds softer and slower: “There is no guilt, no shame for you. The idea is completely mine, not yours. Just a practical decision. Nothing to do with your moral principles.”

Is it a new experiment, a manipulation, a joke? But it doesn’t sound like that. The first feeble question John can manage is certainly not the most appropriate one: “Will you… like it?”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “Maybe not. But it’s irrelevant. You won’t like it either at first. You will keep blaming yourself, and blaming me, and saying it’s mad. But then, some time later, it might work out”.

Did it work out with someone else, previously? A vaguely disturbing thought.

The next inquiry: “You think that I leave otherwise?”

“Not now – but at some point – yes. I’m irritating you all the time. Sooner or later, presumably sooner, you’ll find it unacceptable.”

A perfectly logical assumption. The faint tightening of Sherlock’s throat makes it suddenly moving, though.

John could tell him that “at some point” he might leave anyway. People get married, with children and a loan for a nice house, and spend their time building up a proper career, not running the streets with their obsessive flatmates. Well, normally. In real life. John is not quite sure that his life still can be considered as normal, or even real – with all the amount of improbabilities becoming his daily routine, thanks to Sherlock.

Nevertheless, if he should disappear from Sherlock’s life due to some circumstances – a happy marriage or a sudden death, for instance, which is more likely to happen, taking their lifestyle into account, Sherlock will cope without him. He will be fine on his own. He did manage to live alone before they met, didn’t he?

“Alone” is the key word.

If Sherlock doesn’t care for people – well, nobody cares for him either. Mycroft is _concerned_ about him, or rather his inappropriate behavior. Mrs. Holmes, a woman of ambitions, is mostly _upset_ with her younger son, not so successful and socially adapted as Mycroft. All the police officers across the country, including Lestrade, have a mercenary interest in Sherlock’s abilities, that’s why they _put up_ with him. If they only could get the answers without seeing Sherlock at the crime scenes, they would certainly prefer not to interact with this notorious freak. A lot of people _owe_ him, like Mrs. Hudson, a lot of people _need_ him desperately in emergency situations. Some of them may _want_ Sherlock for his extraordinary looks of a romantic villain, like that poor girl at Bart’s.

But is there someone to sit beside him when he feels bored and miserable, someone to pay attention, to say: “You are amazing. But you don’t have to prove it to me”?

No one, except John.

He needs me, John realizes with a pang of confusion mixed with pleasure, needs me so much that I can choose the price.

Till this evening John has never considered his present state as Sherlock’s companion to be... everlasting. No, seriously. Participating in Sherlock’s crazy endeavors from time to time is one thing, being a part of his life always, permanently… that’s a matter for discussion. But it occurs to John that, despite all the negative emotions, he has never really thought of searching for another flat with an ordinary, agreeable, predictable flatmate. Besides, he remembers the sudden feeling of bereavement at the thought that he has ruined their relationships entirely. Almost physically painful emptiness in his chest.

And it seems that no one, except Sherlock, has ever bothered to tell him “you are a good man”, even passingly.

John is short of words, as always. So, in a wave of sudden compassion, he lays his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, hoping that he feels the unspoken promise of comfort – I have no anger, no bitterness for you, just this. I’ll stay. For a while.

Sherlock almost jerks back at first, then relaxes, but his eyes are still anxious and troubled, crystalline grey in the dim light, with darker borders around the iris. He has the look of a man who is determined to meet a challenge with stoic resolve. John is able to recognize it because he sees the same strained, concentrated gaze in the mirror. Constantly.

I didn’t say no, John realizes suddenly, he thinks that the deal is set. That he must be ready for the consequences. And it makes him tense, despite his will. Sherlock may pretend to be resilient and unflappable, but in fact his back is still aching, tight with pain, and he’ll be waiting for worse. Poor idiot.

Probably he should pull his hand back from the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder. But he doesn’t.

“Sherlock, look, we don’t need this.” It sounds like pleading. Doesn’t matter. “Let’s just forget it, ok? I don’t want to leave you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, after all.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen a bit. He says nothing, just leans his head, briefly pressing his cheek to John’s palm, appreciating the gesture at last. It looks like “thank you”.

John mumbles, with an awkward cough: “Er. Well. I’d better fetch a compress for you.”

But at the door he glances back involuntarily to see Sherlock stretched on the sofa, lying on his stomach, arms crossed under his chin.

A half-naked lithe body he could have at his mercy if he only said “yes”. So boyish, with a flexible spine and sharp shoulder-blades, crossed by the weans. No one will see these marks. No one but John. He could come back and run a hand across the sensitive bare skin, gently and soothingly, then press firmer, ruthlessly, deliberately, and trace one of the streaks with a thumbnail, and feel the twitch and quiver of the muscles under his fingers. Then pause at the small of the back, making this body tremble in anticipation. Enjoy the power to choose whether to hurt or to be tender.

A pure physiological temptation, so inviting.

If Sherlock needs him so much, he will really except any terms of the proposed agreement. He will be decisively compliant – once in a week – to keep the sensible, reliable and, most of all, caring and loyal John Watson beside him on the other days. He won’t flinch, he won’t take his word back, no matter what happens, he is too proud and stubborn to say: “Please, stop, it’s enough”, though for a control-freak like him this submission will be devastating, not only physically, but psychologically torturous. Sherlock may persuade himself that he’ll be fine, that he can endure any pain or humiliation, making them abstract, keeping his mind apart from his body… but they both know that it’s not quite true. He’ll be far from fine.

And one of them will like it.

For a brief moment a painfully bright vision flashes through John’s mind. Sherlock. Kneeling at his feet. Hands bound. Ready for _anything_ because he promised. And that desperate, tense look of stoical determination…

No. Damn, no. This is NOT what he wants.

He needs a minute, maybe even more, to calm down, hiding in the kitchen. Because he is unexpectedly, shamefully hard. Irony doesn’t help. Deep breathing doesn’t help. Nothing really helps. The need, now apparent, almost forces a whimper of despair out of him, flooding heat through his limbs, setting up a tremble to his knees, no matter how desperately, how angrily he denies it. John splashes cold water to his face and pretends to search for something in the cupboard. His left hand is shaking slightly. Sherlock will notice. Oh, God, he only has to look at him.

It’s just a primitive visceral reaction, a matter of self-possession. This outburst of rage, this conversation – they must have undone something. Something he should bury again, as deep as possible, for definitely, definitely he will never say “yes” to Sherlock’s kinky, twisted proposition. He just can’t.

Strangely, it upsets him the most, even more than his mad behavior and wicked, predatory thoughts, more than the sense of guilt. He could yield and be selfishly, ugly happy for short while, maybe once in his life – but he won’t.

John sighs, holding a pack of frozen peas against his feverish cheek. Is it because he’s a good man? Now he’s rather dubious about this statement, but maybe he is, if Sherlock says so.

Sometimes he deeply regrets it.

John returns from the kitchen, distressed and absolutely appalling to himself, to find Sherlock preoccupied, typing something at a pace on the laptop – _John’s_ laptop, not his own – which balances dangerously on the narrow arm of the sofa. He looks back over his shoulder only when the cold compress touches his skin. The slanted eyes are bright and not at all troubled anymore: “Just checked your web history – this forum is rather interesting. Do you know that someone is planning a real murder there?”

…And no apologies for Tuesday or anything else, as John realizes belatedly. Why isn’t it surprising?


End file.
